


Winds of Change

by L_Morgan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Implied Incest, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Slash, Sibling Love, Slash, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 04:59:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_Morgan/pseuds/L_Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John returns to 221B to find Sherlock getting ready to attend dinner with Mycroft as his 'plus one.' Old secrets are revealed and new possibilities emerge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winds of Change

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jadis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadis/gifts).



> This is a birthday gift for my wonderful beta, Jadis! When I asked her what pairing, she couldn't decide, so I tried to cover as many bases as I possibly could! Happy Birthday!

When John arrived at Baker Street, the door was unlocked, giving him a moment’s pause. They’d been more conscious of security since Sherlock’s return.

“Sherlock!” he called, taking the steps two at a time.

No answer.

“Sherlock!” he repeated, stepping into the living room: empty. Kitchen: also empty. Bathroom: Empty.

With a slight feeling of trepidation, he walked over to Sherlock’s room, the door to which was slightly ajar.

“Sherlock?”

“In here, John,” Sherlock replied, causing John to let out his breath in a relieved huff.

“Didn’t you hear me?” John asked, pushing his way into Sherlock’s room. “I thought we agreed that we’d keep the door locked unless we’re expecting someone?”

He stopped dead in his tracks when he caught sight of his flatmate, who was standing in front of the full length mirror. Sherlock was wearing slim, tailored black trousers, a white button shirt with fancy French cuffs. He had a bow tie tossed casually over one shoulder.

“So are we?” John asked, perching on the corner of Sherlock’s bed. “Expecting someone, that is?”

“Obvious,” Sherlock said, doing up the last button.

John frowned. “Case?”

“Uhm...” Sherlock looked as if he were actually considering it. “Not exactly.”

John’s eyes widened. “Do you have a date then?”

Sherlock shook his head, but then surprised John by saying, “Not exactly.”

John frowned; he could feel his forehead wrinkling, but was helpless to stop it. “What do you mean?”

“Favor,” Sherlock said, reaching for a pair of black socks. He sat down next to John and John watched, while Sherlock unrolled the ball of wool, carefully straightening the socks. He laid them both out on the duvet between them, but made no move to put them on.

“Since when do you do favors?” John asked, glancing down at Sherlock’s feet. He’d seen them before, but somehow, against the dark material of the trousers, they looked unnaturally pale and he was struck by the desire to touch them. He wished Sherlock would put his socks on. Looking for something else to put his attention to, John glanced up the jacket that was hanging on the doorway to Sherlock’s closet. “Is that a tuxedo?” he asked.

“You’re observant tonight, John. Well done.”

John’s felt his mouth draw into a line. “And you’re being a right pain in the arse,” he returned. “What’s going on? It’s either a case or not a case. It’s either a date or not a date. So forgive me for being curious, but not only have a I never seen you do a favor for anyone, I’ve also not seen you in a tuxedo before.” He pushed himself up from the bed and started to go.

“I’m going to dinner with Mycroft.” Sherlock said, his words coming out in a jumble.

John sat back down. “Excuse me?”

Sherlock finally picked up one of the socks. He crossed one ridiculously long leg and covered his foot. John simply stared, caught by the sight of Sherlock’s fingers smoothing the expensive material across the delicate arch.

‘Jesus,’ John thought, ‘I need to get laid.’

“Mycroft has asked me to attend a dinner,” Sherlock said, unfolding the one leg and flexing his foot before repeating the motion with the other. “I said yes. So, you see, it’s sort of a case, because it’s Mycroft. And it’s sort of a date, because it’s dinner.”

Not sure what to say, John went with the first thing that popped into his mind. “Mycroft asked you to dinner?” The ‘And you said yes,’ hung in the air, unspoken.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, standing back up and walking towards the mirror. “He needed a plus one and I agreed.”

John blinked. He stood and walked over to stand behind Sherlock.  “Doesn’t he have people for that sort of thing? Anthea, for example?”

“Away on holiday.”

“And he asked you next?” John asked, not bothering to even try keeping the incredulity out of his voice.

Sherlock caught his eye in the mirror. “Why so surprised? Bisexuality is the diplomat’s calling card.” Sherlock, the bastard, actually sniffed. “He could do worse.”

“You’re his brother!” John was aware that his voice was a little too loud. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to take it down a notch. He thought back to all of the times that he’d been forced to drag Harry along to some event and cringed. “How could taking one’s brother make him look anything other than pathetic?”

Sherlock turned, meeting his eye directly. His eyes almost black.

“I said I was going as his ‘plus one,’ not as his brother.”

John’s mouth fell open and he found himself, literally, having to make an effort to shut it.  “So you weren’t kidding? You’re going as his _date_?”

“As I said...” Sherlock’s eyes flicked away, then back again. “ It certainly won’t hurt that I’m nearly a decade younger, two stone lighter, and infinitely more attractive.”

John laughed, causing Sherlock’s mouth to twitch in amusement.

“Seems dangerous, though,” John said, relieved to feel the tension leeching from the room. “What if people find out? I’m assuming by the look that this isn’t just some small gathering of close friends.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Mycroft doesn’t have friends.”  He leaned down to grab a pair of black dress shoes; they looked new. “Besides, what would be the fun in that? We’re going to the Palace.”

John took two steps back so that Sherlock could sit down and put his shoes on. “Mycroft - your brother - the British Government - the, according to you, most dangerous man I’ll ever meet - the same one that sold you out to Moriarty and then helped you pretend to be dead - is taking you for dinner at the Palace, as his _date_? And how is this a good idea? I can’t believe you said yes to this.”

“Oh, yes you can,” Sherlock smirked. “Because just imagine the look on the French Ambassador’s face when someone lets it slip that we’re actually brothers. Besides, the whole thing makes Mycroft’s skin crawl, which has its own charm.”

Thinking that it was about time he and Mycroft agreed on something, John shook his head. “Then why in God’s name would he suggest it?”

“Simple really...” Sherlock stood up and moved towards the door, motioning for John to follow. “...think about it from the French Ambassador’s perspective. What kind of man brings his much younger, much more attractive, gay lover - who also happens to be his brother - to dinner at the Queen’s?”

John shook his head.

“Think about it, John!” Sherlock was getting excited, now, his voice rising. “Who would so carelessly break every social /moral rule known to man in the Queen’s house - and not just in her house, but at her very table - without even breaking a sweat?”

John shook his head. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Either someone who is crazy or very powerful.”

Sherlock smiled. He looked a little bit like a proud parent. “Or both.”

“You’ve done this before.”

“Once or twice,” Sherlock admitted, walking over to the kitchen table and glancing over his notes.

John followed him into the kitchen. “You won’t work for your brother when it comes to issues of national security, but you’ll....” John trailed off, not exactly sure he was prepared to finish that thought out loud or for what Sherlock might do if he did.

“This is about national security,” Sherlock returned without looking up, “And, after all, the food’s not bad.”

John snorted. “Like you care about that.” He slipped behind Sherlock and grabbed the kettle. “So what time is prince charming sending the chariot to fetch you to the ball?” he asked, feeling slightly mean.

“He should be here shortly,” Sherlock said, adding a few drops of something to a petri dish before sliding it underneath the microscope.

John set the kettle down on the burner with a bang. “He’s coming here?” he asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock rocked back, then flounced over the sofa. “He should be here in just a moment actually. It takes a while for Mycroft to get into character. Besides,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “my brother is nothing if not unerringly polite.” Sherlock cocked his head, then stood, beating a hasty retreat to his bedroom. “In fact, I believe that’s him now,” he said, glancing over his shoulder before disappearing all together. ”Get the door, will you?”

And sure enough, he heard Mycroft - well, he assumed it was Mycroft - coming up the stairs, followed by three sharp knocks at the interior door.

Grumbling, John walked over and opened it. “Mycroft,” he greeted, sweeping his arm aside to invite him in.

Mycroft blinked. He, like Sherlock, was dressed to the nines. The tux cut to accent, rather than to hide. He had his umbrella in one hand and a bottle of scotch in the other. A bottle, which he promptly handed to John.

“A little something for the house,” he remarked, stepping through. He looked a little bit like he was walking on eggshells, either that or like the floor was going to fall from beneath his leather shod feet.

In fact, taking a closer look, John thought he looked like he had indigestion - or was constipated. Definitely not relaxed or anywhere close to smooth. Maybe Sherlock hadn’t been kidding. He shifted the bottle into the crook of his arm.

“Can I get you something to drink?” John asked. “Tea, perhaps.” He glanced down at the bottle he was holding. “Or maybe something stronger?”

Mycroft actually looked chagrined. “Perhaps it would not be remiss,” he admitted, leaning his umbrella next to John’s chair. “Is Sherlock here?” he asked, glancing around the flat.

“Oh yeah,” John wandered into the kitchen and set the bottle on the counter. “He’s getting dressed,” he said, as he pulled two tumblers down from the cupboard. Then, on second thought, he grabbed a third. He figured if Sherlock was actually doing as his brother’s plus one - and he hoped like hell that meant what it had meant when he’d gone as Harry’s - he could bloody well drink the man’s liquor.

He felt Mycroft enter the kitchen. “I wasn’t aware that you were going to be here,” Mycroft said, his voice pitched low.

“Trying to get out of the old ‘break his heart and I’ll break your legs,’ speech were you?” John teased. He poured them each about two fingers worth, then added another splash to his own. He turned and handed Mycroft his glass with a bit of a grin. “Do I dare ask what your intentions are towards my flatmate?”

To his amazement, Mycroft actually blushed.

“John!” Sherlock called from the bedroom. “Stop harassing my date!”

John barked out a sharp laugh, and Mycroft looked like he’d be happier if the floor would actually swallow him whole.

John surprised himself by actually feeling a little pity for the man; though why Mycroft would have ever thought that taking Sherlock, of all people, to the Palace was a good idea, was beyond him. Well, John supposed, Mycroft had had crippling bouts of bad judgment before where Sherlock was concerned. Maybe this was just another manifestation of his filial blindness.

“Cheers, Mycroft,” he said, clinking their glasses together and heading back into the living room, claiming his chair before Mycroft could take it over as he was wont to do. “Better you than me,” John muttered, picking up his novel and starting to read, or at least pretending to.

Within just a few moments of John having read the same sentence over and over, Sherlock came out of his bedroom, heading straight for his brother. He was wearing his jacket, but the tie was still loose around his neck.

“Help me with this, brother,” he said by way of greeting. “And I’m sure you haven’t forgotten....?”

Behind him, Mycroft sighed. “Can’t we do this in your room?”

John’s eyes flew open, but he kept his head down.

“John doesn’t mind,” Sherlock said, moving to stand directly in front of him. “Do you, John?”

John looked up, feigning disinterest. He shook his head. “Don’t mind me.”

Mycroft sighed again and then came to stand in front of Sherlock; they were toe-to-toe.

John frowned. He had never seen them quite this close to one another. And there was something disconcerting about all that brain power in such a concentrated space. Not to mention the fact that Sherlock was looking at Mycroft as if he was the last Coca-Cola in the desert.

Silently, Mycroft reached up and took the tie in his hands. He slid it around Sherlock’s neck and began to create a bow.

“Not too tight...” Sherlock smirked. “You know how I love it when you suck on my collar bones.”

John choked, and Mycroft flushed, his fingers fumbled, turning the almost perfect bow into a tangled mess. Pulling himself to his full height and without saying a word, Mycroft began again.

“Oh, do relax,” Sherlock said, leaning forward and kissing Mycroft’s nose. “We’re supposed to be lovers, not brothers.”

“As well as,” Mycroft corrected, putting the final touch on the tie. He stroked his fingers down Sherlock’s cheek, a much more intimate move than Sherlock’s previous brush of lips on skin.

John shivered and then forced himself to look away. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Mycroft take a small box out of his jacket pocket. He flipped open the lid. “Do they meet with your approval?” he asked.

John glanced up in time to see the right side of Sherlock’s mouth twist up.

“They’ll do,” Sherlock said, his voice low and soft. “Put them on?”

Mycroft dumped two objects into his free hand; they captured the light from the lamp, casting a pattern across the wall.

‘Cuff links,’ John thought stupidly, realizing that this must be part of the routine - the reason why Sherlock’s sleeves had been left undone even though he’d already put on his shoes and jacket. He looked back down at this book, only to find, seconds later, his eyes glued to Mycroft’s hands as they threaded the pieces of jewelry through Sherlock’s cuffs.

Mycroft cradled Sherlock’s hands in his own once he was done; his fingers resting lightly on the pulse point at Sherlock’s wrist.

“Are you ready to go?” Mycroft asked, his voice so low that John barely heard him over the roaring in his own ears.  He’d always known that Sherlock and his brother were strange, but this was.....

He couldn’t bring himself to even think it.

Let alone name the sick feeling at the bottom of his stomach, which, decidedly, was not disgust, but rather something much more primal, more possessive, more hopeless.

Much to John’s surprise, dismay, whatever you want to call it, Sherlock stepped closer still. He placed both hands on Mycroft’s neck, pulling him closer.

John closed his eyes. He couldn’t watch.

“You’re upsetting John,” Mycroft murmured. “We should go.”

John shot to his feet, eyes open. The brothers Holmes were exactly like he’d left them,  barely inches apart, Sherlock’s fingers resting in Mycroft’s hair, Mycroft’s hands on Sherlock’s hips.

“Well, goodnight then.” John reached down and grabbed his scotch. “I think I’ll be going up now.”

Trying to play it cool - because, after all, this was _supposed_ to be a charade and God only knew that Sherlock was the king of shamming and he, John, was _supposed_ to be Sherlock’s blogger, not a jealous boyfriend - he took a deep breath and said: “Now just remember, Mycroft, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

The two of them smiled simultaneously. It was more than a little bit creepy.

“Goodnight, John,” Sherlock said, looking through his as if he could see his very soul.

“Yes,” Mycroft uttered, his hands never leaving his brother’s waist, “goodnight, indeed.”

 

 

 

John jumped when he heard the door open. He looked around blearily. A quick glance at his phone revealed that it was just past 2:00. The last thing he knew it just gone 11:00 and he was just going to finish the chapter he was on....

He must have fallen asleep.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock said, as he dragged Mycroft into the room. “You waited up for us, how sweet.” He flung himself down on the sofa, pulling Mycroft down with him.

Unlike before, Mycroft was looking very relaxed. He had either gotten in character, John decided, raking his eyes over them both - the mussed hair, the loosened ties, the slightly untucked shirts - or they were drunk.

They were also very, very close.

Closer, in fact, than they’d been when he’d last seen them. They were touching, from knee to thigh, from thigh to hip, from shoulder to shoulder, hands twined.

John blinked.

Then, scratch that.

Mycroft must have disentangled himself from Sherlock’s grasp and placed his arm around his shoulders in the split second that John’s eyes had been closed. Sherlock’s cheek lay on his brother’s shoulder.

If John didn’t know better, he’d think it was sweet.

As it was, he didn’t know what to think.

“Good night?” he queried, trying to keep his voice from shaking and the bile out of his throat.

“It was dull,” Sherlock said, just as Mycroft spoke: “Sherlock was a nightmare.”

“You loved it,” Sherlock returned, nuzzling his face in Mycroft’s collar.

Mycroft smiled, but he didn’t answer. If anything, he looked indulgent.

John really tried to shut his mind to all of the images that the thought of an overly affectionate Sherlock and an indulgent Mycroft might lead to. He really was too tired for this.

“You should have seen the face of the Cambodian Ambassador when the oysters came out,” Sherlock said, stifling a yawn.

John closed his eyes. Just when he thought it couldn’t get worse. Oysters?

“It wasn’t the oysters, themselves, little brother, that upset him,” Mycroft pointed out stiffly, causing Sherlock to laugh.

It wasn’t often that John heard Sherlock laugh - at least not like that. A low velvety rumble that caused something at the base of John’s spine to heat and pool. ‘Damn it.’ He started counting backward....

“I think John’s gone back to sleep,” Sherlock observed after a few moments. “Does that mean I still get my good night kiss?”

“I think you’ve had your share,” Mycroft  deferred. “More than your share by most people’s standards.”

“And since when you care about _most_ people?”

John’s eyes flew open. “I’m awake,” he said, his voice echoing against the shadowed walls.

Sherlock chuckled, the sound of it moving through John’s blood like smoke.

They sat in silence: John watching as Mycroft’s played with Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock - well, Sherlock letting him.

It was an interesting tableau.

In all of the years that he’d known them, this was the most peaceful he’d ever seen them. Sitting nearly in one another’s laps, eyes closed, Mycroft’s fingers at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock’s hands wrapped around his own waist, with one of his fingers tucked into the side of Mycroft’s jacket. Their breath perfectly synchronized as if they shared the same lungs.

All it once it looked completely innocent, yet not.

And John, all of a sudden, felt like a total intruder.

He also felt like maybe he’s lost something that he hadn’t even truly realized that he’d wanted.

He stood up and lay his novel on the seat of his chair. “I’ll just go, now,” he said, feeling something twist deep in his heart. “You know, let you finish your evening.”

Two sets of eyes flew open and looked at one another before turning back to him.

“Actually, John,” Mycroft removed his arm from Sherlock’s shoulder and leaned forward. “Don’t go up on my account. I was just leaving.”

“Were you?” John asked before he could stop himself.

“Yes, I was,” he said, ever so polite. 

Mycroft stood and reached down to pull Sherlock to his feet. “Good night, brother,” he whispered, dropping a kiss on Sherlock’s upturned mouth that had already begun to pout.

“The least you could do is tuck me in,” Sherlock groused, clutching at Mycroft’s jacket. “What would Mummy say?”

Mycroft laughed. “Do you _really_ want to know what she’d say?” he asked. “Now stop sulking, or I will be forced to ask _John_ to accompany me the next time Anthea’s away.”

There was a snort of protest - and John wasn’t entirely sure that it hadn’t come from him.

Sherlock turned away and John could see him donning the defensiveness that he normally wore whenever his brother around.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said; he suddenly sounded tired.

“By all means,” Sherlock crossed his arms across his chest. “Ask _John_ next time.”

John sputtered, not sure what was going on or how the mood in the room had changed so quickly.

“No, John, it’s actually a good deal,” Sherlock said, turning to face him. “New suit, cuff links - a relatively decent meal _if_ you can stand the company.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft reached out but then dropped his hand, letting it hang loose between them. “I’m not going to ask John.”

‘Thank Christ,’ John thought, sinking back into his chair. He knew he should have gone to bed at eleven.

“Then you should ask Lestrade,” Sherlock bit out. “You know you want to.”

Mycroft took a step back. “I have no plans to ask the Detective Inspector, either.”

“Why not?” Sherlock stepped close, taking a deep breath, as if he were inhaling Mycroft’s very essence. “He’d say ‘yes,’ you know.”

‘Greg?!’ John dropped his head in his hands. ‘What the hell?’

Then as suddenly as it had come on, the anger was gone and Sherlock buried his head in Mycroft’s chest and let himself be pulled into his brother’s embrace.

“I want you to be happy,” Sherlock murmured, his voice almost incomprehensible. “You should ask him.”

In that moment John wished for two things: one, that he was anywhere else but here and two, that they were still talking about Greg.

“No one will ever replace you, ‘Lock,” Mycroft said, stroking his hands into his Sherlock’s hair. “You’re my brother. And I love you.”

“Yes, I know, you worry about me - constantly,” Sherlock said.

John couldn’t help but be struck by how young Sherlock sounded - more like a teenager than a grown man who had single handedly dismantled one of the world’s most dangerous criminal networks while leaving everyone who could have helped in mourning.

Well, everyone but Mycroft, as it turned out.

Biting down on that old resentment, he glanced back up at the two of them. Only to wish he hadn’t.

Because Sherlock was getting his goodnight kiss.

It wasn’t improper, mouths locked together but chaste. Nothing...to make it anything other than it was.

But John could feel it, the emotion behind it, all the way down to his toes.

He found himself clearing this throat before he could stop himself.

Mycroft ended the kiss slowly, returning Sherlock’s face to his shoulder.

“Oh, hello John,” he said, as if he’d forgotten they had an audience. “Sherlock is overly tired.”

“Obviously,” John said, pushing himself up to his feet. 

“I’ll be going,” he said, stepping away from Sherlock. “You’ll think about what I said?” he asked.

Sherlock glanced over at John and then back to Mycroft, before nodding. “And will _you_ call Lestrade?” he asked.

Mycroft started to take a step towards the door, then hesitated. “Are you certain?”

“That he’ll say yes?” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course I am.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Mycroft met his eyes, and once again, John got the feeling that he _really_ shouldn’t be seeing this. “Are _you_ certain?”

Sherlock’s eyes cut over to John as if of their own volition and John felt a shiver dance up his spine.

Sherlock nodded.

“Very well.” Mycroft slipped away from Sherlock. “Oh, John?”

John shuddered; he hated it when Mycroft started a sentence that way.

“Yeah?”

“Perhaps you could tuck Sherlock in, in my absence?” he asked, as if he were asking for something as simple as a cup of tea.

John nodded.

Mycroft glanced over at Sherlock, who had already turned away away and was facing the wall; his eyes inscrutable. “Thank you, John, for it seems I have an early morning call to make.”

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing but the mistakes!


End file.
